


In The Back of Your Head

by bootson



Series: Cages Verse [1]
Category: Bandom, Black Cards, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-20
Updated: 2010-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:17:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bootson/pseuds/bootson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer didn't actually look at anyone who came to browse, didn't care, never did. It was all the same, even if the faces changed. Not all places were like Saporta's, the vast majority were a direct opposite but they all looked like perfectly respectable people....if <i>respectable</i> meant <i>in favor of owning people and forcing them to get their hands dirty so you don't have to</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Back of Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a tiny idea for hc_bingo (card [HERE](http://bootson.livejournal.com/16678.html#cutid1)) and then it turned into...this. After MONTHS of angsting over this, I finally reached a place I was happy stopping. There's at least one sequel living in my head ~~and in an outline on GDocs~~ which is the only reason I'm okay with going ahead and posting it. Hopefully, I'll eventually get up the nerve to write the rest of the 'verse. I really need to come up with somewhere else to post it just because I spent so much time on it that I actually want to put it out there. IDk where the best place to go with it would be so we'll see if I actually do that or not. Basically, this was beta'd by everyone I linked in the GDoc for it...so see below for the list of the awesome ladies who saved this fic from a certain death.
> 
>  **Giant EPIC THANK YOUs:** [](http://pikasafire.livejournal.com/profile)[**pikasafire**](http://pikasafire.livejournal.com/) because I would have completely given up on this if she hadn't liked it so well in the beginning and kept on me about it. [](http://mizubyte.livejournal.com/profile)[**mizubyte**](http://mizubyte.livejournal.com/) for making sure MCR didn't come across as completely throw away characters even though their role was short. [](http://chellealistic.livejournal.com/profile)[**chellealistic**](http://chellealistic.livejournal.com/) for reading this and promising it made sense (even with her limited knowledge of everyone). And...I'm sure I threw this at some other people along the way and they were equally amazing even though I've forgotten to list them.
> 
> Title and cuts swiped from "Left For Dead" by Citizen Cope  
> There is now a sequel: Void & Null

Maybe this would be the one step too far but fuck that. The crunch of the trader's nose when Spencer's fist connected, the flow of blood soaking into his ratty collar; all of that was worth it. The guards were on him within seconds, pinning his arms back as fists connected with his torso and under his chin. There was a broken sound, something distant and with the tonality of being underwater. When Spencer's chest constricted, an extra ache, he realized he was laughing. Quite possibly, he had finally lost his mind.

"Fucking scum. Put him away. Little better than animals!" The trader was ranting, frantically gesturing with the hand unoccupied with clutching his nose. Bloody fingers gripped Spencer's face and he had just enough presence of mind to meet the man's eyes...and spit directly into the guy's fury-red face. His hold tightened until Spencer knew there would be bruises tomorrow. "You think you're so big now, don't you, little bit? Talk to me about your place in the fucking world tomorrow." He shoved roughly, enough force behind the gesture to land Spencer flat on his back if he hadn't been held up in the goons' thick hands.

It wasn't that the struggle had been knocked out of him, but there was no need to fight after that. Spencer dragged his feet, going as limp as possible while he was tugged toward the one cart that didn't carry supplies. He tilted his head back, studying the blue of the sky; Ryan would have had some poetic term for it and Brendon would have been trying to find shapes in the clouds. The sound of rusted iron dragging together brought Spencer back just before his clothes, little more than dirty rags, were being torn from him and he was thrown onto the rough wood bottom of the cart. There would be splinters; he didn't care.

The guards were jeering, muttering whatever insults they thought were necessary for Spencer's newest term in the cage. He'd long since stopped paying attention to them, only bothering with a response if they dared to touch him. Most of them did. These two must have grown bored with his lack of response because blissful silence finally surrounded him. No, that's an exaggeration. There was still the sound of people shuffling along, mumbled half-sentences meant for no one or only one other to hear, laughter in the distance because locking a slave in a cage was apparently quality fucking entertainment.

It shouldn't be, not when it was Spencer. He'd spent the majority of the past month on lock-down inside a space not meant for someone his height. Spencer had always had a problem with subservience. He'd been free once, free and spoiled until he was twelve and managed to end up in the wrong part of town at the wrong time of the evening. He learned to act, though.

Over the next several years, Spencer bounced around at least as many places; first as a house slave, then stables, field, back to the kitchen. All of them had been as similar as they were different, until the rules changed. He finally ended up on a sprawling estate owned by some shameless heir that had never liked being called "Master" and had insisted on "Saporta," even if they all still said it like a title. As far as owners went, he hadn't been the worst, hadn't been demanding and never whipped, hit, insulted, or locked any of them away. Regardless, Spencer had only learned to behave because that's where he met the others. They'd managed to stick together, forming a weird type of bond that was strange among slaves. That was a topic too maudlin for Spencer to focus on for long.

Suddenly, the caravan was moving. Or maybe it had been for a while. Spencer actually wasn't sure at this point; he was entirely too wrapped up in his own head. The road was rough, uneven land flattened purely due to use. The dust rose and the sun was setting. Spencer reasoned that it may have been a pretty scene, something out of one of Jon's sketches, if Spencer didn't have the bars at the top of the cage obstructing his view, his legs weren't already starting to cramp from being contorted in strange ways, and the old planks beneath him weren't so rough against his skin. Spencer shifted until he could hug his knees to his chest and hide his face. They'd stop eventually and be fed something barely substantial; Spencer would be lucky to get any water at this point. Maybe they'd leave him here to die. It would probably be better that way.

Things had been...not _great_ because being owned was never _nice_ , but they had been tolerable with Saporta. He'd been there for years, being bought only months after Ryan, a few years after Brendon. Jon hadn't even been a slave. There was something about debt and Saporta taking over his contract until Jon could pull himself out of servitude. That didn't matter when the tax enforcers came and seized everything at the estate. Saporta was extravagant, but no one had thought he was that far under. Novarro and Suarez, two men who worked with Saporta on whatever it was he did, had been there trying to find ways to pay off Saporta's supposed debts in a hurry, but all liquidated assets, slaves included, were gathered up until the issue was resolved.

Blackinton, Saporta’s household manager as far as Spencer could tell, tracked them all down in an auction house nearly a week later, trying to buy most of them back, or at least Jon who wasn't even supposed to be there, but they were already chained up with the caravan. Spencer only knew he'd been there because of Victoria, Gabe's free-woman housekeeper who was also mistakenly seized, was removed from a line of pleasure slaves. She'd nearly fallen to her knees from exhaustion but caught Spencer's eyes then Jon's with a look of promise as she mouthed _Ryland_ and _We'll come back_.

Maybe they had; maybe they'd missed them; it didn't matter.

When Spencer looked up again, the sun was only visible by a pink stretch a light tinting the clouds on the horizon. He was nostalgic and that wouldn't do. That was the type of thing that got people killed. The caravan was still moving but a piece of lukewarm, wet cloth hit him squarely in the chest. Spencer was seriously slipping if people could sneak up on him. He glanced up to see a kid he thought might be named Alex but Spencer was under the impression that there were a lot of those so he was probably making it up.

"I don't know how much you'll be able to get from that," the boy shrugged. He had dark hair and haunted eyes which he tried to hide behind it. Spencer knew what caused that look so he didn't comment, only nodded as the kid disappeared quickly. He raised the cloth, wringing a tiny bit into his mouth to avoid sucking the water out, but had to resort to that and the dry mouth it would lead to. The kid's eyes wouldn't get out of his mind so Spencer pressed the mildly damp cloth to his neck and resumed hiding his face against his knees.

When he let his eyelids droop, he saw a similar look in a different set of brown eyes. Ryan had been like that; all pleasure slaves were after a while. He'd been lucky enough to see some light return to Ryan's at Saporta's, when he was allowed books and paper, ink, whatever he needed when they could come by it. He'd also been free once, though he wouldn't talk about it, but he'd managed to get some of that back while they were together and nearly, so close to free again.

Saporta really was a rare case. He had a bit of a thing for the arts and he let them all dabble when chores were finished, usually not bothering to care if they finished anything before playing. He'd bought Brendon specifically for his musical ability and Spencer didn't think Jon did more to work off his debts than play with pencils and kittens all day. Ryan wrote or he read, proofed things for Saporta. Spencer was the only one who didn't do anything artsy. Oh, sure, he'd bang around on drums whenever Novarro was around to okay it, but he was always working on something. Cleaning this, organizing that, mending clothes or porch steps.

Saporta had laughed at him once and only once, saying "Sit the fuck down, Spencer. Looking at you makes my head hurt." He'd given Saporta a look, a glare though he was loathe to call it that since Saporta owned him, but Saporta had waved a hand and sent him off to see if Victoria needed anything.

And now he was on his own, stuck in a caravan headed for an auction house or a trading center, some lowrate merchant square if the places they had been already were any indication. The rocking of the carriage stopped, sending Spencer lurching forward. He barely got a hand out to catch himself against the bars before his face connected with the hinges. There had been a time when Spencer would have wondered what it would take to work out the bolts there, pondered how much time he'd have in the night when the guards were groggy and paying more attention to their fires and their drinks than the disspirited slaves of the camp.

But that was before. Before Ryan and Jon had been sold, nearly a year ago now; Spencer was pretty sure they'd seen three seasons since then. At least, he reasoned, they were probably together and Jon would make sure Ryan wasn't left alone if he could manage it. It wasn't like where Spencer was, sitting behind thick bars with the night chill creeping up on him, with Brendon gone a little over a month before. Where ever he was, whatever he was being ordered to do, Spencer hoped he had music, hoped he was safe and not locked away with the dogs to fight for food like he had been before Saporta made a clever trade with his previous owner.

The horses were being unhooked, Spencer could hear the clink of metal and the soft thumps of hooves as they must have been led away for water or the graze or whatever.

The background noise was getting a little louder as some of the slaves fought halfheartedly amongst themselves for food Spencer wouldn't see. The air was growing colder and it was moist so there must be a lake nearby, the breezes didn't smell like the ocean. Spencer let the inarticulate sounds fill his head, imagined it had a tune like something Brendon may have played on the rickety upright or the sleek baby grand Saporta kept carefully tuned.

Somehow, tilted awkwardly against the rough bars and curled protectively into himself for warmth, Spencer must have slept. It was in fits and starts, but Spencer wasn't fully aware of anything until morning, the sun already bright. There was a guard peering in at him.

"You awake, pet? We were taking bets. Wondering if you'd died on us. Would have meant hell of a cut to our pay, but eh," he shrugged. His arms were impressive but he didn't seem tall or too broad; Spencer could have taken him down in a minute if his muscles weren't stiff from disuse and he wasn't bordering on being malnourished. "I think you're gone at our next round. Might have to rough you up. Scar up that pretty pale skin to throw you into a discount heap, but no one's going to mind much. Good riddance."

He leaned forward; Spencer didn't flinch or lean away. "You could have breakfast. But you have to promise me a return favor. So long as we don't break you, you're pretty much free game, pet."  
Spencer stared at him, giving him the glare he never admitted having given Saporta, and said as clearly as his sleep roughened, dry throat would allow "Fuck. You." The guard laughed, starting to hand over what looked like a piece of flattened bread. Spencer didn't try to take it, it wasn't worth the effort.

"Fine. You change your mind and we'll see about keeping you alive. Those hips are looking a little thin, it's a pity."

After openly ogling Spencer's body for another moment, scars clearly visible on his legs and upper arms, the man wandered away. Spencer wasn't going to lower himself to a whore; it was different when the slaves were forced into it. Given a choice, he wasn't going to let it happen. If he starved, so be it.

The sun was hot that day, beating down against his shoulders, scalding his skin by midday when the goons were eating lunch and taunting the slaves. Spencer didn't have to walk, but it was only going to soften his calluses and make it more difficult if he ever got out of this damn rusted box.

By the time the sun started to sink again, Spencer had been accosted twice, poked at with the tip of a dagger once, slipped some water by a different kid who may or may not have also been an Alex but looked like he was more of a field slave than the other one. His skin was on fire, his head ached, his limbs were practically numb. Death would have been preferable.

When the sun had set completely, the caravan had staggered into a market. There wouldn't be a lot of buyers this late in the evening, but the trader lined them up for the masses anyway, making the same threats of food and water for good behavior. Spencer was kept in his box, turned toward the public but not released. He was the "dangerous" one, the one no one would want. Whoever bought slaves they thought needed to be handled...well, those were usually the worst.

Spencer didn't actually look at anyone who came to browse, didn't care, never did. It was all the same, even if the faces changed. Not all places were like Saporta's, the vast majority were a direct opposite but they all looked like perfectly respectable people....if _respectable_ meant _in favor of owning people and forcing them to get their hands dirty so you don't have to_.

"Spence?" A soft voice said from off to the side. Startled into attention, Spencer glanced up but couldn't see through the crowd. He caught a glimpse of dark hair being pushed with the flow of foot traffic, but it must have been a hallucination. The voice, the hair...Spencer was projecting.

He'd been alone too long, fed too little, and confined in too small a space; clearly, he was projecting. In the interests of maintaining what little sanity he had left, he went back to ignoring the comments from potential buyers, the ones asking the trader why this one was separate and caged.

The sky darkened, the square cleared, and Spencer was at least given the same meager rations as the others. Apparently, a caged slave was good for business or something because they left him there. He wasn't an idiot though. He knew if he didn't sell this time, he was finished. He'd finally caused too much trouble and his skills were diverse for a slave but his disobedience outweighed whatever skill-set meant to be his selling point.

Everything felt more harsh when they were in a market and waiting around. The nights were more stifling, and this one was not different. Too many bodies crammed together and not enough of a breeze to clear out the tang of sweat and waste, it always assaulted Spencer’s senses more strongly than he remembered. It kept him awake. Between the cold, hard bars against his knees and the rough boards under his hip on top of the thoughts he couldn’t cut off, Spencer knew he’d be watching the sunrise.

That must have been the whole point of the cage. It trapped your mind even more than your body, was probably meant to remind a slave of their place. Spencer wondered how anyone expected them to forget, with the chains and whips a near constant.

When dawn came, Spencer was starting to feel even more delirious, colors swimming. Or maybe that was the dehydration. Regardless, Spencer was awake to see the square come alive, merchants filing in scant minutes before early customers arrived. The people in the business of slaves always came later, around when the sun hit its peak. Spencer wasn’t looking forward to the weight of those stares, could already feel the heat starting to absorb into his shoulders and that was enough....when he was suddenly drawn to a commotion between the trader and a buyer. He wouldn’t have noticed or paid them any mind, if there hadn’t been a lot of gesturing in the direction of his cage. Great, he really was a sideshow.

“I don’t care. I told you which one I wanted.” It was a man with wavy hair and impossibly long legs. He was standing beside a more imposing type, darker with a stance that dared people to cross him. They were quite the pair.

“With all due respects, sir,” the trader continued. He still looked a bit more ridiculous with the minor swelling and facial bruising. “That one, it’s a handful. I’m sure we can find a more fitting one in my batch.”

“With such a diverse background? I need someone who can cover a variety, makes my life easier.” The man seemed bored, superior like he knew he was going to get his way. He probably always did.

The trader was gesturing toward the Alexes. Two of those boys seemed to sink in, close ranks, around the one Spencer suspected was a pleasure slave. It was heartening but wouldn't last; Spencer pitied when they'd lose each other. “These, two for the price of one. They surely cover it all...”

His companion spoke up then, voice deeper and potentially menacing. “I’ve yet to meet a worse salesman. We want the one in the cage. Our price range just went down.”

“Travie, I think I’ll be mentioning this to Patrick. Didn’t he say he was in the market? I was going to make a reference, but no one wants this much hassle.”

“Begging your pardon, sirs-”

“Papers. Draw them up. William, will we be needing chains?”

“I think we can handle it. He seems rather...placid for his reputation. Perhaps he’s only been mismanaged?”

“I’m willing to agree. Also, clothing. We’re not parading personal property around for wandering eyes.”

Spencer snickered quietly. Sure, these two were about to own him, but at least they were good for a laugh right now. Until he realized what that may mean; eyes only wandered to the pretty ones, the bed slaves. If that’s where this was going...Spencer may have to make a run for it.

The trader sighed, stopping to speak with a few of his minions before going to find the necessary paperwork and sending them to secure the new sell.

Contract exchanges were always monotonous so Spencer didn’t really listen; having come in at the middle after being dressed and his hands newly bound. At least he did manage to pick up some potentially useful information. He gathered that this William fellow was to be his owner, William Beckett, heir to some sort of trading company. Travis was to him what Blackinton had been to Saporta. Well, at least Spencer probably wouldn’t be retrained, whatever else might be done to him; he was still hoping it wouldn’t come to that. It’s not like he hadn't been retrained multiple times but he was a bit old for that sort of switch and he hoped he wouldn’t be forced to endure the same type of conditioning he’d heard about in whispers and warnings.

When they finally turned to go, Spencer with shackles around his wrists connected to a chain led by Travis, Spencer was surprised to be ushered into a real carriage. It was covered with cushioned seats and Beckett motioned for him to take one instead of the floor. When he was situated, his assistant reached over to removed Spencer's restraints.

"Don't go kicking up a fuss or some shit. You'll just be more comfortable without those." In acknowledgement, Spencer didn't try to hit him. There was no more polite response than that.

“Your name is Spencer, yeah?” Beckett asked. Spencer ducked his head. “All right, then. I’m William, Bill, Beckett, I don’t much care which name you use and this is Travis McCoy, anything short of Coy and he’ll answer.”

“You’re impossible.”

Spencer’s brows were furrowed as he stared at the polished wood under his feet. Maybe that was a trick. Some of Spencer’s earlier owners had tested his obedience with word games he hadn’t understood until he met Ryan. He didn’t care about offending owners, but he usually waited until he knew how they treated slaves first. He listened to the easy banter of the two freemen, hearing the rise and fall of their voices more than their words. The melody of their conversation lulled Spencer away into his own thoughts; that was the only reason he had for missing when the conversation switched to include him. His new captor, this William Beckett character, dropped a light hand on his knee. Spencer jerked so violently his back cracked and his head hit the wall behind him.

"Easy. Easy, there." McCoy started, tugging lightly at Beckett's outstretched arm. Beckett pulled away, looking ashamed if the quick glimpse Spencer allowed himself was anything to go by. "We're not going to hurt you, all right?"

Yeah, he'd heard that one enough times not to believe it. Even the most benevolent of appearances always had a price attached for the treatment. McCoy was still talking, but Spencer found it hard to concentrate until a name jumped out at him.

"...like Gabe's."

Spencer's eyes shot up, actually meeting McCoy's. "Saporta?"

Beckett grinned, nodding. "You were with him for a while, yeah?"

"Yes, he owned me once." Spencer didn't understand what he'd said to make Beckett and McCoy flinch; he braced for the reprimanding hit anyway.

"Look, Spencer. Spencer Smith, right? I like the alliteration; it's fun. Mind if I call you that all the time?"

McCoy muttered "Bill" as Spencer ducked his head again. It was strange, hearing his surname again. He didn’t think it was in his papers, but it’s not like Spencer had ever seen them before.

"All right, whatever," Beckett waved his hands around a bit before he got back on topic. He stretched out to occupy about half the cabin with legs alone, sinking in his seat and looking relaxed from what Spencer could tell. For someone so well-off, Beckett was irrationally skinny; probably more so than Ryan was when Spencer last saw him. Whatever, must be nice, being able to slouch. Spencer was wound too tightly for such things, even if he'd been in a situation which allowed it.

"Spencer Smith, I don't _own_ you, okay? I don't want to own you."

"You...bought me." Spencer said very slowly, as if talking to a small child. He kept his voice quiet so it wouldn't seem like he was calling his new owner's idiocy, even if he was. "Was I a...gift?" It had never actually happened to Spencer, but Brendon had been a gift for some haughty debutante once.

"No. Travie, I thought he said he's smart."

"He did, but he's probably shell-shocked. Cut the kid some slack."

He shouldn't speak up, really shouldn't, but the curiosity was maddening. "Did...Saporta say that? Novarro or Victoria, maybe?" And, okay, he was also fishing. He honestly hoped they were all okay. For all his resentment, Spencer missed the place and the people.

"We haven't heard back from Gabe yet but-"

"Shh. It's a surprise!" Beckett was flailing a little to silence McCoy.

"Don't you think that's kind of...a dick move?" McCoy was voicing Spencer's thoughts exactly. McCoy glanced at him and winked; Spencer must have been showing his agreement in his expression. Fuck, he really was off his game.

Beckett nudged at Spencer's bare foot with the toe of his own shoe. "He'll see in an hour or so. It's going to be worth it."

"We still should have brought him," McCoy went on and Beckett sighed. He leaned a bit toward McCoy until their shoulders touched.

"Yeah, but it would have been suspicious. What if he'd been recognized. You saw how worked up the kid was last night."

"Last night? Did you hear him this morning? It took Bob damn near an hour to get him talking in coherent sentences. And I think chords were scared right out of him."

That didn't make any sense so Spencer went back to ignoring them. Whatever, whomever, this person was...Spencer thought it might really be his new owner instead of Beckett. Spencer didn't trust buying by proxy, but these two didn't seem... _awful_ so maybe this new one would be all right. Maybe he wouldn't make Spencer do too much beyond what his body would let him before his endurance was back up.

He didn't hold out any hopes.

So wrapped up in _not_ hoping, Spencer didn't think about the carriage slowing until it was actually stopped, not that he could see out the windows from his seat without giving up his space.

"Honey, we're home!" Beckett practically bounced through the door. "Sisky, where's Butcher? I have questions!"

Spencer didn't move, not even the slightest shift. They had someone around here known as "the butcher" and what the hell was a "sisky"?

McCoy was wearing a smile Spencer could only call indulgent. "Here's how this is going to work," he explained as he climbed out. It put Spencer behind him and at an advantage being higher up, not smart when Spencer was "dangerous."

Spencer followed and didn't even think about attacking.Yet.

"I'm going to show you where you'll be sleeping, where you can get a bath, and round you up some decent clothes. What the hell do they have you in, man?"

"Rags? Pretty standard-" Spencer cut himself off. You didn't answer things that way when a free-man asked you questions; most of the time the inquiries were rhetorical.

But McCoy just laughed. "Rags might be being too generous. I'll send someone up with some food and let... _him_ explain everything to you."

That must be this mystery person Beckett was so hell bent on keeping a surprise. Wonderful. Spencer followed close on McCoy's heels, glancing around the estate. It was large. There were stables to the left and back a ways, a few buildings around it that he assumed housed either slaves or equipment. Some smaller buildings were off to the right and framed the fields. Strange as it may sound, Spencer hoped he ended up there, with the imaginary freedom being outside allowed him.

Spencer nearly stumbled as McCoy pushed the door open and waited for Spencer to clear the stairs. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used the front entrance to an owner's home but was fairly sure he had scars to remind him what a bad idea it had been.

McCoy waited, standing there and looking across the doorway but not at Spencer. He seemed to be having a conversation over Spencer's head and it was usually better to just keep your head down and try not to let on that you'd noticed those sorts of things. Instead of lollygagging any longer, Spencer hurried up the steps and through the door, waiting for McCoy to lead him to overcrowded, hidden quarters.

But he didn't.

Spencer was being herded through a well lit entrance hall with high ceilings and an ostentatious chandelier. The main staircase was covered in plush carpet with intricately carved handrails. A trail of expensive looking paintings led to the top which opened into a hall with a large mirror Spencer averted his eyes from and heavy looking doors. They stopped at the third one on the right.

"Right then. This is your room."

The words barely registered. Instead of a row of cots or threadbare blankets thrown on the floor, there were only two beds - real beds! - and two dressers. A vanity was set off to the side with a shaving kit and basin. Two plush chairs framed a small table under the window.

It was more elegant than anything Spencer had ever had, maybe even before he was abducted.

"Um. Is...I don't think...wait..."

McCoy chuckled deep in his throat. "This is yours. We didn't want to make you share but your...roommate practically begged and Bill has serious issues telling the kid _no_." His tone suggested that he shared Beckett's problem.

"There's water in the basin and that kit on the counter is yours if you want it. We'll get you a bath drawn up after dinner. I'll send someone up with lunch in a while." McCoy started to step back, pulling the door with him. "I'll be back in a few with some clothes for you, see if I can find a decent fit."

"Anything...is fine," Spencer muttered, not sure why he felt compelled to assure a freeman of anything. When the door shut, Spencer stood in the center of the room, stock still and waiting for the lock to click into place. It didn't.

Probably five minutes later, he got moving. It hadn't sounded like an order, but it was implied that he should clean up. There were two pitchers by the basin, both room temperature, soap and a surprisingly soft cloth. Immediately, he started scrubbing the grime from his face and arms. Halfway through he got distracted when his fingers brushed the leather case holding a set of clippers and razors.

Finally raising his eyes, Spencer looked into the mirror and had to remind himself not to punch the vision looking back at him. His eyes were glassy, sunken and ringed with a pale purple color. There were real bruises high on his cheeks, a cut on his forehead. His skin was more pale than the amount of time he spent outside should have allowed and his shoulders looked too sharp under the thin material of his shirt.

Spencer couldn't stand it. In hopes of looking a little less like something left out in the wild too long, regardless of the truth in that, he set about shaving off the beard he'd never allowed to grow that thick at Saporta's. About when he was finishing up, some indeterminate amount of time later, there was a knock on the door.

It didn't open, but he still tensed. There was another knock and McCoy's voice asking if he could come in. Spencer gave some sort of affirmative response and the door was pushed open slowly. McCoy smiled a little sadly at him and set a bundle of fabric on the bed.

"These should do you for a few days. Should fit all right. We're going to bring Pete around and get him on making you something proper."

"Thank you." He knew his voice was stilted but Spencer didn't know how to help that. McCoy nodded and was gone as suddenly as he'd come.

Going through the clothes he'd been given was even more culture shock than he'd already been hit with that morning. There were no holes and it felt like quality material. Everything was plain but didn't suggest a uniform.

Stripping quickly, he scrubbed down, hating the thought of wearing _actual_ clean clothes over all that dirt. He pulled on gray slacks and perfect socks, ignoring the lack of shoes and the way everything was just a little too big. He glanced at the little bit of water left in the second pitcher. It should do.

He rinsed his hair with it, running his fingers through it to get some of the tangles before attacking it with a comb. It was too long but he doubted he'd have time to do anything about that. Since it would mean staring into the mirror again, Spencer put that off. If Beckett or this new owner or who ever wanted him to cut it, he'd deal with it then.

There was a black shirt with white buttons in Spencer's pile so he slipped that on quickly and suddenly found himself with nothing to do. McCoy said he'd send someone up so Spencer must not be allowed to wander. After pacing for several minutes, he studied the bed McCoy had placed the clothes on. Presumably, that meant it was designated as his. Slowly, he crawled onto it, forcing himself not to pull the heavy blankets back. He didn't bother to turn over, just buried his face in the pillows and enjoyed the way he sunk into the mattress.

Apparently, that was all it took for him to fall asleep. Granted, he hadn't slept in days, not properly in he didn't know how long, but this was a new place. If he kept making childish mistakes he was going to end up dead or worse. Spencer startled when he heard shuffling, shoes against carpet and then the edge of the bed sank beside him.

Forcing his breathing to stay even, he tried to reason out what was happening, where this was going. Then he felt fingers in his hair. Without meaning to, Spencer whipped around quickly, fingers curling around a thin wrist. The person he grabbed gasped and held the breath.

Then Spencer looked up and the world stopped.

"What the fuck."

"Nice way to treat an old friend, Smith." The statement was breathless, but still. It was Brendon's voice because _Brendon_ was right there.

His fingers tightened and Brendon made a soft sound of discomfort but didn't try to pull away. Spencer kept staring at him, eyes tracing Brendon's face for any traces of abuse but finding none. Brendon looked...he looked good. He'd put on some weight and his smile had fewer edges. Honestly, Spencer didn't know what to do with himself.

Luckily, he didn't have to decide. Having had enough of being gawked at, apparently, Brendon launched himself onto Spencer in a bit of a tackle. One of his hands caught in Spencer's shirt, pulling him over onto his side and wrapping still too thin arms around him.

Just this once, Spencer was willing to admit he was clinging. He found his face buried in Brendon's neck, breaths coming short and nearly panicked.

"Shh. Shh. Spence, it's okay. You're fine," Brendon was whispering, fingers rubbing small circles against his scalp. "We're fine. Fuck, you're shaking."

And, now that Brendon mentioned it, Spencer noticed that he was. He didn't break like this; whatever else happened, Spencer never broke. Yet, here he was, trying not to cry just because he was in this backwards place with these strange ass people and Brendon was safe.

Brendon swallowed hard, Spencer felt the motion, and tightened his hold. Then he was talking, this stream-of-consciousness monologue that Spencer remembered him doing when he was nervous.

"Fuck, I was scared, too. When Tom first brought me here, I was terrified. I don't think I talked for a week, do you know what that's even like for me?" Spencer laughed a little wetly and Brendon sighed before he went on. "And they weren't looking at breaking anyone else out, not right now. But it's just one person and it's _you_. I wasn't going to fucking leave you there. They had you-" He broke off abruptly, gulping down air before he went on, softer than before.

"They were keeping you in the cage. And you looked worse than when you came to Gabe's. It was so bad, Spence. I about lost it just asking Bill. God, Spencer, what did you _do_?"

"Punched the trader in the face."

Brendon froze in that way where you never noticed he was moving until he stopped. When he spoke there was some sort of pride in his voice. "You're something else, man. You know that?"

Spencer nodded, sounding less hysterical when he laughed this time. Wiggling around, he managed to get an arm under him and pushed up so he could look at Brendon again. Still, he didn't push away so far that they weren't touching. If the way Brendon's fingers tightened against his neck was any indication, he was as reluctant to let go as Spencer.

"Bren. How'd... What did you do to get them to buy me?" The answer could be anything and Spencer knew Brendon, knew he'd give up any and everything if it would help someone he cared about.

Shaking his head, Brendon tugged his hair a bit. "Nothing. I asked. I....I asked. That's all."

Muscles locking down, Spencer shoved up until he was sitting. Brendon followed, leaning back on his elbows and sprawling across the bed. "Brendon. What did you do? I don't...you shouldn't have done anything. I was fine on my own."

Suddenly, Brendon's eyes were darker, a glare like daggers. "I didn't do anything. And yeah, I had to. You started a fight with a trader. You were....Do you know what they do to slaves who do that? Did you somehow miss that along the way?"

"No," Spencer practically spat the words. "I _know_ as fucking well as you do but still. I don't want you getting hurt for-"

"Shut up."

"Bren-"

"No. Shut up." He started to turn away and Spencer's heart began to race.

"Wait! Brendon, I'm sorry, don't-"

"Woah, woah." He was back, a tray in his hands. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? See? I just brought you food."

For a solid minute, Spencer stared at what Brendon was trying to hand him. There was an apple, an honest to God red apple and Spencer couldn't even remember the last time he had one of those. It's possible that bowl full of what looked like chicken soup was hot when Brendon brought it, but Spencer wasn't sure how long ago that was. There was water, actually clean looking water. All in all, it was sort of mind boggling. He looked from the tray to Brendon and back again, almost afraid he'd touch something only for it to turn to dust.

Brendon laughed and motioned for Spencer to move. Once his back was against the headboard, Brendon set the tray across his knees. "Food, Spence. Food of the gods. I'm not even kidding. Yummy, lukewarm, goodness. Right here for you. There was a roll but I ate it. I sort of skipped lunch when Mike came back to tell me you were here. Don't make my sacrifice have been in vain."

Spencer flicked at Brendon's hair but was laughing too hard for it to even matter. For now, he'd let it go; later, though, he was finding out exactly what Brendon had done to get him here.

"Slowly, or you're going to get sick and I'm not cleaning up that kind of mess."

Laughing was really fucking good. In the next few hours that Spencer had with Brendon, he laughed more than he had since Saporta's. Nothing could beat that. Everything was sort of...not perfect, not with the fear and confusion digging at the back of Spencer's mind, but it was pretty great. He'd almost forgotten where he was, listening to Brendon tell a story about someone named Gerard nearly getting kicked by a horse and claiming it was something to do with repressing wild hearts or whatever, when there was a knock at the door.

"B?"

"You can come in, Bill," Brendon's tone was still light, but Spencer saw the way his eyes shuttered. It was enough to make Spencer's muscles lock down.

The door opened slowly and Beckett stepped in, grinning widely at where they were sitting still mostly curled around each other. "Frank's got dinner going, should be done pretty soon, I figure. You guys want to come down or should I bring it up?"

"Whichever-" Spencer was about to say _whichever you would prefer, master_ but Brendon cut him off. Oddly enough, it still seemed like the gears were turning in Brendon's head.

"We'll probably come down. I promised Frank I'd help him with icing anyway."

Beckett waved a hand. "It's whatever, man. Frank's not going to care, you've got more important shit to deal with." When Brendon practically growled, Beckett raised a hand in apology. "Bad word choice. Chill out, little dude. I'm just saying. We'll see you down there. You're looking a little better, Spencer Smith."

Spencer's brow furrowed in confusion at Brendon's audacity and Beckett's weird brand of contrition. Besides, he'd been called a lot worse things with far more malicious intent so Spencer didn't have it in him to be easily offended anymore. Before Spencer could get his mouth open to say...something...the door was closing and Brendon was bounding off the bed.

"Come on, man, lots to see and lots to do and a hell of a lot to show off."

When Brendon held his hand out, Spencer took it without thinking, just liking the familiarity of Brendon's too hot and slightly sweaty palm.

It took the better part of an hour for Brendon to show Spencer all the little passageways in the house and Spencer was already confused by the hallways that seemed to come out of no where.

"I'm never going to get this. I'm going to get lost and then I'll starve in a corner with some mice." Spencer muttered darkly. Brendon rolled his eyes. "Or I'll show up a week later and get thrown in a dungeon for being insubordinate."

Brendon tapped their shoulders together. "Bill's afraid of dungeons so the whole basement is full of wine, no worries." They were rounding a corner when he reached out to grab Spencer's wrist and pull him to a stop. "And, look, no one's going to punish you for anything. I don't think. I haven't really tested the boundaries but they know Gabe and Tom said Bill was a slave once so..."

"I don't even know who half these people are and what? I'm supposed to trust them?"

"You've got to try, Spencer," Brendon whispered. He leaned in, hiding his eyes against Spencer's shoulder. Without even pausing to think about it, Spencer gripped the back of Brendon's shirt tightly, hanging on. "They don't ask for much, for anything really and...if that's all we have to do to stay? Don't you want to stay?"

"I want to stay with you."

"Then we've got to try this. They've been really good to me so far. The only reason I do anything is because I feel like it." When Brendon looked up, his eyes were bright with what Spencer distantly recognized as excitement. He'd had that same look when Victoria's dog had puppies and she'd given Brendon the runt of the litter because he was so worried about it being too small to be trained properly and then getting into trouble. "I give piano lessons. And someone's asking about vocal lessons. And I get paid, Spencer. They don't take any of it away from me."

Spencer's head spun and his mouth went dry. That didn't make any _sense_. Slaves didn't get money, if they did then there was no reason to stay, the balance of power started to level out. Not knowing what else to say, he stuck with "You hide it anyway, right?"

Brendon rolled his eyes and stepped away only to grab Spencer's hand and drag him along. "Well, yeah. I'm not a complete idiot."

When they stepped into the dining room, a hush fell. Really, it shouldn't have been so noticeable since the room almost qualified as a hall and there were only four other people there. Spencer stared toward the end of the table for only seconds before looking down and trying to tug his hand away from Brendon. Apparently, Brendon still disagreed with Spencer's views on propriety and held fast.

"Frankie! How'd the cake come out?"

The guy with remarkably outrageous hair covered his eyes and groaned. "Brendon. Did you have to bring that up?"

A little guy across the table from that one was practically bouncing, waving a hand to shush the complaints. "Ray's just mad because he doesn't have my skills."

"What fucking skills? There's flour on the ceiling. The. Ceiling. How in hell does that even happen?"

There was a mousy looking fellow sitting beside Ray-with-the-hair who Spencer had almost forgotten was there. Spencer would have probably continued to forget his existence if he didn't raise a hand up off the table and shrug. "My fault. I scared the shit out of him." Even if he wasn't looking closely, Spencer thought he might be smirking; his eyebrows suggested a smirk, anyway.

Brendon was snickering quietly; Spencer turned wide, shocked eyes on him but Brendon waved off his concerns.

"I was looking for Gerard. It wasn't my fault Frank thinks this place is haunted."

"I never said it was _haunted_!" This Frank guy was almost in a full-on pout. Even though he didn't know him, Spencer could recognize the signs. Oddly enough, it seemed to be because Frank kept getting cut off before he could tell his flour and ceiling epic tale.

Ray scoffed. "Yeah, and that's why you get all bitchy if you're over here after dark and Bob has to come be your escort."

"Bob's to make sure I don't get attacked by rabid wolves or some shit between here and our house."

"Because we have a lot of rabid wolves around here," the last guy, this one with hair almost as interesting as Ray's even if it wasn't defying gravity and a sort of intense air about him, put in. "Yeah, I saw them following on Mike's heels one day. Sneaky fuckers. Don't make a sound." Hopefully, that was sarcasm, but Spencer didn't know enough about wolves and this guy's vocal inflection to make a judgment call.

"Gee did that. It's those sketches he keeps giving him," Mousey went on.

"I have to give them to someone," the not-Ray hair one sounded indignant. "And they're not even that damn scary. I'm blaming Bob for this one. Partially because he's not here and mostly because he told Frank I had prophetic dreams. So...what do you have to say to _that_ , Mikey?"

"Bob's going to kick your ass when I tell him you said that." Mikey, process of elimination said this one had to be Mikey, looked sweet, Or, at least his almost-expression, did. It reminded Spencer of Ryan so much that his heart clenched for a second and he clung more tightly to Brendon's hand.

"Like you would," Gee started but didn't make it any further.

Frank opened his mouth, managed to get out the word "Bob" and then Brendon actually spoke over top of him. He pulled Spencer with him until Brendon could sit beside...Gee?...and Spencer had little choice but to sit beside him. He wasn't sure if he was thankful to be separated from someone who sketched monsters for fun or worried because he was on the end and anyone could come up to him without warning since his back was to the door.

"Spence, meet Gerard, Frank, Ray, and Mikey. Guys, this is _Spencer_." The way Brendon said his name made Spencer look at him sharply. He wasn't sure what he heard in the tone but the others seemed to understand.

Gerard leaned around Brendon at the same time Mikey handed Spencer a bowl of potatoes. It took him a moment to respond and realize there was a plate in front of him. He took the potatoes and spooned a small portion onto his plate as Gerard started talking.

"You were with Brendon for a long time, right? He said...there were four of you? I'm really fucking glad Beckett could come get you. It's too bad about your friends. I'm sure they're doing all right. Everything is working out for you two so I bet it's working out for them. Ow!" Gerard reached down to rub at his leg and the utterly unaffected expression on Mikey's face led Spencer to believe he'd kicked Gerard. Spencer appreciated the gesture. For a few moments, he watched Gerard and Mikey stare at each other; it was unnerving, the way they seemed to have a whole conversation through minute facial expressions on Mikey's part and slightly more exaggerated ones on Gerard's. Trying to decipher their mental dialogue kept Spencer's mind mostly away from the path Gerard's rant had tried to lead it toward.

It wasn't that he didn't like and/or want to talk about Ryan and Jon, which he didn't because it worried him so much. It was more that Gerard sounded so sincere, like he really believed what he said and wanted Spencer to as well. All things considered, it was a little heady when Spencer didn't even know who these guys were and was still trying to work out why he was in an actual dining room instead of a cramped cupboard type area with a meager meal. Brendon speared a piece of meat and dropped it on Spencer's plate, giving him pleading eyes until Spencer picked up his fork.

"Mikey and Gerard are brothers." Well, that explained a lot. "They live out by the fields with Frank. Ray and Bob have the place right beside them. I'll show you around outside tomorrow before my lessons."

"I think Pete's coming to get Spencer clothes tomorrow," Mikey all but whispered and Spencer looked up just in time to catch what he thought might be a blush before Mikey busied himself with his water glass. Gerard sounded like he was choking but Frank and Ray were laughing too loudly for Spencer to be sure.

Ray's hair bounced impressively as he explained. "Gerard has issues with Pete trying to steal his little brother no matter how many fucking times we tell him Pete has a Patrick and doesn't need a Mikey."

When Mikey made a little sound in the back of his throat, Frank started rambling about Patrick needing help keeping Pete in line and enlisting a trained professional. It all sounded like vague innuendo, designed to make Gerard splutter even more, to Spencer, but he never had an accurate grip on those types of things.

As everyone started gathering up plates, quite a while after Spencer finished, Spencer stood to help. Brendon snatched his plate away. "Relax. I'm going to check out what Frank did to the kitchen. I'll show you the music room or something after." Then he was gone, filing along behind Frank, Gerard, and Mikey. Ray was still standing by his chair, glaring toward the door that apparently led to the kitchen and muttering about what exactly Frank could do with his mixing bowls and a wooden spoon. It was now or never.

Spencer cleared his throat just as Ray took a step. Stopping, Ray turned and waited. This was the part that worried Spencer: finding information. He could ask Brendon, sure, but Brendon really wanted Spencer to trust the folks hanging around the house and Spencer didn't want to upset him. Plus, for all his grumbling about cleaning up Frank's messes, Spencer could hear the fondness in his voice. Ray seemed like okay people so Spencer sucked it up and forced the words out, stilted and awkward as they were.

"Um. So...you all...live here? Are...how...what...what do you do?"

Ray shrugged. "Depends who you're asking about." Nodding, Spencer assumed that was all the answer he was going to be given. "Gerard does art commissions for people in town. When everyone travels through for the summer holidays, he sells originals and things. Mikey helps Travie with the household accounts. Frank is mostly a nuisance, but Sisky's teaching him how to work with the horses. I mostly fix shit that everyone else breaks but I work out in the fields with Bob a lot, too; you'll meet him eventually. We have a pretty interesting garden going and we help with Bill's stuff."

Still trying to process all that information, Spencer's mouth started working of its own accord. "But...you actually work for Beckett? You're not..."

"Slaves?" Ray's voice dropped in volume enough for Spencer to note the change. "Not anymore. Gerard and Mikey were, until Pete stumbled across them. He didn't have the space for them to live with him, so Bill gave them a place here. Frank turned up trying to steal from the stables. Travie found me on a line headed for a merchant square at the docks. Picked me up because I didn't act ashamed when he looked at me; appreciated my character. Travie's good like that."

Not knowing what else to do, Spencer nodded and dug his nails into his palms until he knew there would be marks. So...all these guys were freed slaves. But. But if they were really free, then why were they still hanging around Beckett's place? What could they gain by staying? From the brief amount of time he'd spent here during dinner, Spencer could say he liked Ray; asking him that sort of thing was a bit too big for their limited interaction, though. Spencer tried to smile when Ray gave him a nod.

"Don't worry, kid. You'll get the hang of it." When Ray pushed through the door into the kitchen, Spencer could hear the cadence of Brendon's voice, quick and amused, followed by what sounded like Frank speaking just as speedily over him.

"Ray's right, you know."

Jumping, Spencer whirled around only to be met with a tall blond with icy eyes and a lip ring. Well. There was a lot Spencer could do with this, but he didn't know if he should start with how his chest tightened or the panic he was battling from the surprise of yet another new person.

"You must be Smith. Talk of the estate today. Pretty sure everyone thought Bren was making up all those stories of his."

Spencer growled, quietly and low in his throat. It couldn't be helped, not really; he'd never taken well to people insulting or picking on Brendon. "He wasn't."

"I can see that." This guy seemed at least unfazed, mildly amused at most. He held a hand out and Spencer backed into a chair before he registered the intent. "Bob Bryar. I'm sure Frank has talked me up to glowing heights. Or lied a lot, it's sort of the same with him." He didn't seem too put out when Spencer kept staring at his hand as if it were barbed wire.

"Well, this isn't awkward," Bob raised his eyebrows, dropping his hand to slide into his pocket.

Before Spencer managed to work out what he was expected to say or do, Brendon was back in a flurry of motion. Spencer startled again as Brendon all but attacked Bob from the side. For a small guy, Brendon could usually put some force behind his tackles. Bob, apparently used to the treatment, stood his ground, wrapping an arm around Brendon and practically lifting him off the floor.

"Warning, Urie. We talked about this."

"Keeping you on your toes, Bryar. Someone has to." Brendon seemed to be vibrating, tiny shakes rattling through his limbs. They didn't seem to indicate pain or fear so Spencer didn't act, though he promised to stay vigilant around this guy. It didn't matter how nice Bob looked with an almost smile and bright eyes.

Bryar chuckled quietly, making Spencer's ears tune back in. "You being good? Not scaring the small children...or Siska with piano wire?"

"That was once. And Sisky asked for it."

"Says you."

Spencer couldn't help it, a scowl crossed his face. He was getting sick of always being the last person to show up somewhere, trying to navigate the intricacies of interpersonal relationships and connections. If he felt like being charitable, he'd admit it was a bit worse because Brendon was his friend first and he didn't like the way Brendon could seem so at ease in a place that Spencer couldn't figure out. Biting his lip, Spencer tried to communicate with Brendon through brainwaves and eyebrows. Either it was just a brother thing that worked for Gerard and Mikey or Spencer was out of practice since he hadn't seen Ryan in so long. Whatever the reason, Spencer couldn't seem to get Brendon's attention until he started fussing with the bottom of his own shirt, tugging at the buttons he wasn't accustomed to having.

Brendon finally caught his unease and practically jumped away from Bob to drape over Spencer's side; Spencer didn't try not to look smug. Bob, once again, looked uninterested in the whole thing.

"What do you think of Bob? He got stuck with me when Tom dropped me off, showed me everything."

"Until Patrick showed him the music room. Can't drag him away from it most of the time."

Oddly enough, Brendon ducked his head, almost blushing. He bit at his lip and looked up at Bob with bright eyes until Bob shook his head and reached out to squeeze Brendon's shoulder. "I'm going to fight with the hoodlums for dinner before Frank makes me protect him from poltergeists or some shit. Good to meet you, Smith."

Before Bob was even fully out of the room, Brendon was rambling on about something involving Bob and drums and tugging Spencer toward the stairs. At some point, Brendon must have decided Spencer needed a haircut, but Spencer was entirely too preoccupied to even know when that switch had come about. He let Brendon drag him into their room and position him sideways in one of the chairs so he could go to work on cutting most of the tangles out of Spencer's hair instead of trying to brush them out. Honestly, Spencer didn't care. Luckily, Brendon knew that and also knew not to be offended by Spencer's lack of verbal responses. He didn't say anything for probably half an hour, just letting Brendon cut and ramble or cut and hum, depending. Spencer tried to organize his thoughts and failed miserably before he went with the safest question.

"Who's Tom? If he bought you...where is he?"

Brendon paused, accidentally pulling a few strands of Spencer's hair before he let go and urged Spencer to turn. Cutting at the hair framing his face, Brendon looked focused but explained that Tom was one of William's friends who had also been friends with Jon. Apparently, he remembered Brendon from a couple visits he'd had to Saporta's and refused to finish his trip back to Beckett's without him. A few weeks after, he'd gone back to working the boats for Beckett's trading company, but he made sure Brendon was settled in first.

"I think he only left when I started spending more time with Bob than him. Tom's a lot like Jon, you'll like him. He was really careful with me, kept sort of...promising things until I actually believed him. It's...nice. That I knew someone when I came here. I know it's really confusing and I didn't explain it to you. I should do that. I mean, maybe not tonight? I'm sort of tired."

Maybe he should have been more interested in the Beckett story, but there was only one part of that whole explanation that stuck with Spencer.

"Tom knows Jon? Does he...know what happened? Has he been worried or..."

Stepping back to survey his work, Brendon moved Spencer to the mirror. It seemed to be a way to control the fidgetting Brendon had never learned to restrain, especially when he was nervous. Spencer stared at his reflection, fingers coming up to touch the ends of his now shorter hair. It wasn't as short as Brendon's, but Spencer liked it. It made him feel sort of...normal. Human. Average. Average was always good in Spencer's book. Forcing his eyes to move, Spencer caught Brendon's and tried to smile his gratitude.

Reaching out, Brendon pressed his fingers to Spencer's cheek, stepping up to lean his forehead against Spencer's shoulder. Immediately, Spencer raised an arm to wrap around Brendon's waist. When Brendon started speaking again, Spencer had almost forgotten his question.

"Tom's looking, I think. He's been asking around, sent someone up to where I thought we were when Ryan and Jon were taken but...he hasn't had any luck yet. Bill's sent some people. Pete probably has, too. He sent someone to look for you, but they were going in the wrong direction."

Spencer stiffened when Brendon's voice went sort of wistful and guilty. Turning witout letting go, Spencer got a hand between them and lifted Brendon's chin. "Bren. Not your fault. There wasn't...What were you supposed to do? It's not like we had maps and...we never made any promises. It's hard to stay together when you're-" _Being bought and sold like cattle_ , Spencer thought but he didn't want to remind Brendon of that. If he didn't feel like a slave most of the time anymore, Spencer wasn't going to be the one to bring it up.

"But I should have made Tom take you then!" Pulling away in a flurry of motion, Brendon was pacing. It was a little faster than what Spencer would usually consider pacing, but the intent was clear. "Tom could have afforded it but I was freaked. I knew him but not well. And he was Jon's friend, not mine. I didn't know if he actually remembered me or if he just remembered my selling-points. I didn't know where we were going and...if it was going to be bad, I didn't want to drag you down with me. Which was stupid because caravans are almost worse than anything else. It was dumb. I should've...something. I shouldn't have...I'm really fucking _sorry_ , Spencer. You don't-"

Brendon was working himself up into a frenzy and Spencer, for all he could handle beatings and near starvation, never learned to deal with a hysterical Brendon. When Brendon got like this, all Spencer could focus on was how badly he wanted to fix everything, even the things no one could control. Grabbing his arm, Spencer tugged Brendon toward one of the beds. "Fucking stop. You got me back, okay? You couldn't with Tom, I get it. I wouldn't have either. You had to feel out the situation. I _get_ it."

Turning into his shoulder, Brendon snuggled up close until Spencer leaned sideways. When they were both settled on their sides, Spencer holding Brendon close and Brendon's fingers tangled in his shirt, Spencer went on. "Thank you. I don't get this place but...it's better. Just because you're here. And...we don't have Ryan or Jon, but...we have each other. You made them come get me. Brendon, you fucking...you _saved me_."

It felt weird to say, not untrue but strange. Brendon, who would have been annoyingly modest if Spencer didn't know he was completely sincere, shook his head to deny just what he'd done. Before he could start arguing, Spencer shushed him. He shifted around, getting comfortable and settling into the mattress. He shouldn't be tired, not when he'd spent so much of his time living on stolen moments of sleep and had already managed a nap that day, but his eyes were already drooping. When his eyes closed, right when Spencer was floating in that pleasant limbo between awake and asleep, he heard Brendon's voice.

"I needed you here. I talked about you every day."

Spencer wanted to say something back, wanted to ask what kind of things Brendon said, but Brendon cuddled closer. As he slotted an ankle between Spencer's and leaned over him, apparently snuffing out the oil lamp on the nightstand, Spencer let Brendon's warmth soak into him. The fatigue wouldn't let his eyes open again and Brendon was _finally_ there, safe and solid. It was too hard to fight his exhaustion; Spencer didn't even try.

When he woke up some indeterminate amount of time later, the sun was streaming in through the impractically light colored curtains. Spencer always thought curtains in bedrooms should be thick and dark, sort of like at Saporta's but in less erratic colors. Rolling over, Spencer buried his face in a pillow, reaching out for Brendon before he even knew what he was reaching for. When he was met with cold sheets, he struggled up. His clothing was tangled around him and the room was empty. Allowing himself a total of ten seconds to panic, Spencer started looking around the room. There was a glass and pitcher on the table and a scribbled note in uneven handwriting that Spencer could recognize anywhere.

 _Teaching twins what sharps are. Could take a while. Breakfast in the kitchen. Or you can wait there for Pete. Patrick knows where to find me. - B_

For no reason he could've explained, Spencer folded the note into his pocket and scratched at his hair. He cleaned up a bit, wearing the same clothes he'd slept in and made it almost through his second glass of water when there was a knock on the door. Remembering the manners his mother had once-upon-a-time drilled into him, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and opened the door. There were two short guys standing behind Bob, one peering around Bob's side in a critical way and the other glaring at the first one. Spencer thought he should just resign himself to not meeting one normal person at this place.

"I brought you a seamstress. Thank me later."

"Fucker! I'm not a _seamstress_! I'm an artist, okay, clothes just do my bidding." The creepy, staring one was practically bouncing and pushing his way around Bob at the same time to get at Spencer. Spencer took a step back and Bob grabbed the guy's shoulder.

"Pete. You freak him out and I'm sending Mikey and Patrick to town without you. You'll have to ride back by yourself. And I'll laugh." Except Bob, Spencer was willing to concede that Bob seemed fairly normal.

"You don't laugh." Pete waved a hand but approached Spencer more slowly this time. "Hi, Spencer. I'm Pete. I'm going to get you some clothes that aren't Bob's cast offs. It's going to be awesome. That's Patrick. He's why it's going to be awesome. He's my assistant or some shit."

"More like his babysitter," Patrick rolled his eyes and gave Spencer a little shrug. Bob let him by and sent a ghost of a smile toward Spencer.

"These...were yours? Why'd you give them to me?" Spencer probably shouldn't bother asking, it was just better that way. You don't look a gift horse in the mouth, which never made much sense to Spencer, but the connotation was the important part.

"Wasn't going to leave you in those shitty rags they sent you with." Even though he was mostly turned away, Bob looked back over his shoulder. There was something soft about his expression just then, something that Spencer didn't know the name for. "I didn't need them anymore, Smith. Don't freak out. You're welcome."

Blushing, Spencer stared at the carpet under his bare feet. "Oh. Yeah, right. Thank you..."

Pete's harsh laughter snapped Spencer's head up. "Touching as this is, I do have more important shit to get into today." A complicated set of hand gestures later and the door was closed behind Bob, leaving Spencer alone with Patrick and Pete. At least Patrick didn't seem too terribly strange. Yet.

Surprisingly enough, once Spencer got used to Pete's weird rambling and manic grins juxtaposed by Patrick's near constant eyerolling, things went pretty smoothly. Without actually being outside, Spencer couldn't work out how late in the day it was when Pete was finally satisfied with Spencer's repeated answers that he honestly didn't care if the slacks were gray or black or if his shirts were loose. Mostly, he just wanted buttons and shoes. The look Patrick gave him at that was a little worrying; it was hard to say what Pete would turn up with when he brought Spencer his actual "fall wardrobe" the following week.

Either way, they finally cut him loose and it became obvious fairly quickly that Spencer just didn't know what to do with himself. Still leery about wandering on his own, Spencer managed to beg Brendon's location out of Patrick. It got him a direct escort to the music room, so Spencer filed away the reaction to asking for help and turned a few corridors, descended some stairs and finally found himself leaning against a doorway. Beckett's music room was impressive, to say the least. Guitars, two mix-matched drum kits, an upright piano and a few other miscellaneous things covered the room, but Spencer hardly noticed.

Brendon, even when he was just running through the harmony of some basic piece a brunette about their own age was playing, captured Spencer's attention. It's not that Spencer had never seen Brendon play back at Saporta's, there was just something different about him when he was focused on showing someone else. When the girl missed a key, visibly wincing at the flat note, Brendon started chattering praise in a soft, supportive tone. A smile tugged at the corners of Spencer's mouth. The expression dropped, along with his gaze, when Patrick bumped their elbows gently and hummed a few bars like he didn't know he was doing it.

"He should be done soon. Sarah's only in for an extra session this week because of some society thing coming up. You can go in if you want."

Studying the scuff marks on the floor, Spencer shook his head at the whispered suggestion. Patrick reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

"All right then. Tell Brendon I came down but had to make sure Gerard didn't maim Pete with a paintbrush. I'll see you later?"

Spencer nodded, absently, still unsure what to do with questions that didn't seem like orders but could very well be the same thing. Commands weren't always forceful; suggestions could hold just as much meaning and even harsher punishments. Patrick's footsteps echoed a bit against the hardwood floors as he left, just loud enough to draw Brendon's attention when there was another lull in Sarah's playing. Glancing back, Brendon's face broke into a smile so bright Spencer almost couldn't look. He'd spent so long without Brendon around for Spencer to gawk at that he couldn't turn away either. It was a conundrum.

Sarah tapped a key impatiently and without any real pattern. Spencer wanted to stop her, give her a beat to follow; Brendon covered her hand instead. Spencer couldn't make out what he said, something about one more run through before he had to go for the day. Sarah frowned, turning to follow where Brendon's eyes kept darting to. Her entire body seemed to stiffen before she managed a smile, one that looked real. Without bothering to stop the way his brows furrowed, Spencer turned away. If he was careful, he could probably make it back to his bedroom without running into anyone. He'd been careful, reciting the path Patrick had lead backwards so he could remember it easily.

That should have helped him avoid everyone; no one seemed to hang around the personal quarters during the day. With the kind of luck Spencer had (that is to say, not much), running into McCoy in the hall just outside the corridor leading to the music room shouldn't have been such a surprise.

"Smith," he nodded.

"McCoy," Spencer countered, for lack of anything better. Silence fell and Spencer contemplated backing away, fidgeting under the scrutiny. He did neither, settling for staring at some point over McCoy's shoulder, some part of him still too proud to give in so easily,

Finally, McCoy cleared his throat. "I was just coming to find you. Bill's got a bath set up for you. We had one last night, but Brendon didn't seem like he was ready to let go of you yet."

More likely, Spencer hadn't been ready to let go of Brendon. Hopefully, the feeling was mutual; it seemed like it. "Hm," Spencer hummed, unsure what he was supposed to do now. On one hand, Brendon should be finished with his lesson soon enough; on the other, being seriously clean was something Spencer wasn't sure he could pass up. Squaring his shoulders and pulling himself up to full height, Spencer forced himself to meet McCoy's eyes. "Uh, and that's which way? I'm starting to think I need to draw a map of this place."

Chuckling, McCoy nodded down the hall and motioned for Spencer to follow. He kept his pace even with Spencer's, even when Spencer instinctively tried to fall behind. "They've been trying to draw a map up. Bill gave 'em the design layout and all that shit. Don't think it's worked for them. Brendon'd probably like the company finding all the hidden shit and Bob'd probably like the break from being his go-to tour guide or whatever he is."

Carefully, out of the corner of his eye, Spencer watched while McCoy talked about Brendon. There wasn't any malice in his tone and his expression seemed fond. It...was different but Spencer couldn't hate anyone who could talk about Brendon without looking exhausted, irritated, or superior. If McCoy liked Brendon, genuinely cared about him, Spencer was going to find it a lot harder to hate Travis on the principle of who was free and who wasn't.

Travis led Spencer down the backstairs, throwing him an apologetic look; this staircase had clearly just been closer. On the first floor, Travis turned them down a hallway off the kitchen, past the library and into what was possibly the largest bedroom Spencer had ever set eyes on. By virtue of having opened the door, Travis entered first but Spencer froze in the doorway. The place was _massive_ , Spencer noted as he looked past the oversized, fluffy four-poster bed with its intricately carved redwood frame to dressers and chests of drawers, wardrobes, a desk...all probably filled with more things than Spencer could ever have imagined being able to own. Two doorways occupied the corners opposite Spencer; one leading into a sitting room with a chaise and armchair Spencer wanted to sink into and the other a bathroom, all gleaming porcelain and claw-foot utilities. Even from a distance, he could appreciate the grandeur and formality to everything.

There was no way in _Hell_ he was walking in there, messing up the careful order (even though there were clothes scattered over a cedar chest and miscellaneous papers, journals, and pens littered the desk). This was a trick, had to be a fucking trick. They were just going to lure him in and find a reason to punish him for forgetting his place. He wasn't going to fall for that manipulation again; Spencer had learned that lesson all too damn well.

When Travis cleared his throat, Spencer took a step back. "I...don't think so. Do you think I'm fucking _new_ to this? I see where this is going." If they were planning on punishing him for using a master suite, Spencer might as well give them something _serious_ to whip him over.

Eyes rolled toward the ceiling, Travis shook his hair out and walked over to sit at the foot of the bed. "Come in, Spencer." He sounded weary, exhausted; Spencer almost felt bad for calling him out...almost. When Spencer didn't move for a few more eternal moments, Travis looked up to meet his eyes. "Bill wants you to use his quarters. The rest of them aren't sub-standard or some shit, but you get this many guys together and everything's a fucking dump. He wants to do something _nice_ for you, give you a welcome. Just let him do it."

"Why should I?" The unspoken _trust him_ still rang through the room, loudly.

Licking his lips, blowing out his cheeks on a sigh, biting the inside of his cheek, Travis had some weird internal drama then gave in. "Because he knows what it's like. Sort of, anyway. His mother did. He was too young to remember anything."

"Beckett was a slave?" Healthy skepticism was Spencer's usual default, but this was too preposterous for Spencer to be anything but completely disbelieving. William Beckett...he was proud, carried himself with certainty, and owned a hell of a lot of space. Slaves, even ones freed legally, couldn't make it this well. Huffing a humorless laugh, Spencer tilted against the doorway and crossed his arms. If Travis was going to try lying, he needed to do better than this.

"I get it. You don't believe me. It's not a story you hear everyday," Travis tugged at his sleeve before shoving to his feet. "Bill's mom, she was a slave once. Give you three guesses what kind. When she realized she was pregnant, she ran. Got caught. It was some fucked up shit, but they decided to keep her, train her kid to do whatever they wanted; it's not all that often they get slaves that early in life back east." His eyes sort of glazed over, like Travis had told this story, or heard it, more times than he needed to recite it. Still, he didn't seem unaffected, more like he wanted to go find Beckett and make sure he was holding up all right.

Something in Spencer's chest started to shift, tighten and throb hot and uncomfortable like when Spencer first asked what Brendon had done to get Beckett and Travis to come by the trading grounds for Spencer.

"When Bill was a few weeks old, she got herself lost, see. Stumbled away when no one was looking one night and hid out in a storage room for a shipping company. The next day, Mr. Beckett showed up. You'd have to ask Bill for the rest of it, but he took her in because she had a baby, actually paid her as his housekeeper, and eventually married her. Had papers forged for her and Bill. When he died, Bill got it all, the company, the stores, the title. All of it. Far as anyone knows, the wedding was shot gun and then she was hidden away until the baby was born, sickly. Once the kid got healthy, the Becketts debuted into society."

Spencer gaped and he was actually fine with calling it that, just this once. "What the fuck, man? That's out of some dime novel. That shit doesn't actually happen."

"Who do you think writes those?"

"Beckett writes erotic fiction for women?"

"Bill writes poetry and songs most of the time. But he's been known to buy a publishing company when he wants to publish anything else," Travis told Spencer, fond expression back on his face.

This was too fucked up and downright strange, needed a lot more processing than he had time for right now. A lot of things about Beckett made more sense, the whole reason behind all of this; it made sense if Travis was telling the truth. Spencer couldn't think of a reason someone would make up this much detail just to fuck with Spencer's head. Plus, they would have slipped up around Brendon by now and Brendon was shit with secrets; he'd have warned Spencer immediately, consequences be damned.

"So," Travis cleared his throat, spurring Spencer into standing straight again and coming back to the world outside his own head. "I'm just going to, uh...leave you along for a while. Want me to send Brendon down when he finishes with Sarah?"

Still distracted, Spencer must have nodded because Travis was leaving and squeezing Spencer's shoulder on his way past pulling him away from the door and into the room. When the room was silent and the rest of the world hidden behind the door, Spencer moved for the bathroom. There was no reason Spencer couldn't think deep thoughts and get clean at the same time. Taking a deep breath, Spencer slowly entered the bathroom. As he closed the door, he noticed the lock, a simple kind that slid into place, metal into a hole in the doorframe; a key wouldn't be able to open it; Spencer could actually lock himself in a room and know someone would have to break the door to get to him. Without hesitation, he threw the latch, a small thrill running through his veins at the sound.

He shed his clothes, folding them carefully into a pile before climbing into the water. At some point, it must have been heated, but it was room temperature now, room temperature and still perfect. He set about scrubbing away a layer of skin and more dust of the road that was probably more in his mind than on his body. By the time he ran out of soap, he felt _amazing_.

Time was relative, but sometimes you just have to wallow so that's just what Spencer was doing. His fingers were just getting wrinkled and Spencer was feeling fuzzy, warm and lethargic in a way he remembered from the times he sat in Saporta's garden with Brendon converting the stories Ryan insisted on retelling from his books into songs, voice quiet so only Spencer and he knew why they were laughing. He drifted for long moments, mind wandering into a haze as his fingers skimmed the water surrounding him and his toes tapped a steady beat against the foot of the tub, when he was startled by the door in the master suite unceremoniously hitting the wall. The room apparently had decent acoustics because the sound seemed to reverberate, even through the door. Slipping a bit in his rush, Spencer forced himself out of the water and was hoping the lock held while he jerked Bob's donated pants up his still damp legs.

It was uncomfortable, but it would have to do. Heavy footsteps were crossing the room and Spencer's breathing sped up, heart racing. He didn't have time to think, acting on instinct alone. Someone started pounding on the door, erratic staccato patterns that had Spencer rushing the window, shirt in hand. He was on the first floor with a locked door between him and whatever was happening on the other side.

"Smith! You better still fucking be in there, Spencer."

Momentarily, Spencer froze. Bob kept knocking, not trying the doorknob, not yet. With the window half open, Spencer tried to get a hold of himself. Bob was okay, right? Brendon had a good sense about people and he liked Bob. Plus, he hadn't seemed pushy or overly invested in Spencer...not until now. But Spencer had no fucking clue what his deal was, what there was in his history and _no one_ should ever trust anything they don't know everything possible about.

"Spencer, if you left Brendon, I will hunt you down and fuck you up," Bob voice was clear but dropped at the end, softer and not meant for anyone else to hear. "If you already ran, I'm talking to myself. Fucking acting like Gerard."

Maybe it was the mention of Brendon or it could have been the ridiculous aside, but Spencer shook himself out of his stupor. Literally, he shook water out of his hair and nearly slipped again before he got the lock on the door undone. When he pulled it open, Bob nearly hit him in the face with another intended knock.

"Fuck, man. What took you so long?"

Spencer shrugged, meeting Bob's eyes or trying to, rather. Instead of looking anywhere near his face, Bob's eyes were on his chest, seemingly tracing the lines of water dripping down from his hair, over his shoulders. A blush was starting, Spencer's cheeks heating up so he shifted, hip out and arms crossed. To counter the blush he knew was going, Spencer broke out his best glare and waited until Bob glanced up. He had that same, almost amused expression that he always wore, the one that said he was in on the joke and you were missing something obvious. Spencer glared harder.

"You need something?"

"Brendon's looking for you," Bob shrugged. "He's having an episode about you being left alone to run out on him."

Rolling his eyes, Spencer started to pull on his shirt. "Like I would. He knows better."

"That's what I said."

Spencer did up the buttons as he shoved past Bob. "How would you know? I don't know you."

When Bob didn't say anything, Spencer kept walking. The door closed on Bob's reply, something sounding similar to "I see how you look at him." Either that was or wasn't what Bob said, but Spencer didn't stick around for clarification. Instead, he headed for the main staircase (just because he apparently could) and went to find Brendon.

Brendon found him first, a few doors away from the music room. Everything was quiet so Spencer assumed Sarah had already finished her lesson. Brendon practically flung himself at Spencer, hands clutching his sleeve while he hurried to pull Spencer closer. So what if they were a little co-dependent.

"I was looking for you. I thought you'd...well, I was looking for you." With his voice going soft around the edges, his short nails digging into Spencer's skin through the fabric of his shirt, Spencer knew Bob hadn't been lying. Somehow, Spencer had actually managed to make Brendon worry and that was unacceptable. Silently, he made a vow not to let that happen again.

Reaching over, Spencer gently pried Brendon's fingers away from his arm but kept a hold on Brendon's hand. Tugging a little, he made sure he had Brendon's attention. "Not going anywhere, Bren. Promise."

And the strangest part was, Spencer meant it. The part about not leaving Brendon behind, the implication of that, was a given; the part where Spencer meant he wasn't leaving the house...that was where Spencer's breath caught. He had no idea what was happening here, didn't know if he could trust anything Travis said or Beckett's mere existence. Ray and his whole group defied all sense, as well as the glimpses Spencer had had of Siska and Butcher. And Bob made Spencer a little uncomfortable at the same time that Bob was kind of fascinating for some reason Spencer would probably never figure out.

Ryan and Jon were still out there somewhere and Spencer wanted to know what Saporta would say about him when he finally got back to Beckett. Spencer was still worried, a little terrified actually, about what Brendon might have offered or even given away for Spencer to end up here but in the end?

In the end, Spencer knew he was going to give this place a chance. He'd figure it out, keep Brendon close and they'd figure everything out together. Maybe they'd run; maybe they would have to escape some day in the future. But for today? For right now? Spencer was forcing the cynical side of his brain to shut the fuck up because, it might sound crazy, but they were safe for the moment. There was time to work out everything else if he could just get out of his head for a minute and try.

And he was going to. For Brendon, so Spencer could keep him and not let anything tear them apart again.

Spencer squeezed Brendon's hand, fidgeting until he could take Brendon's hand properly and tug him toward the stairs, in the direction of some commotion that seemed to involve Gerard, Frank, and the Sisky person Spencer still hadn't met if all the names being yelled meant anything. Although Brendon looked a little shell-shocked since Spencer had, understandably, shown little to no interest in interacting with the other, he came followed Spencer easily.

"You're stuck with me this time," Spencer whispered, a bit belatedly. It wasn't a promise, but Spencer thought, just this once, he could actually have promised something and known he could keep it.


End file.
